


Till the End

by PrettyPoppy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 16:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyPoppy/pseuds/PrettyPoppy
Summary: While the battle for Winterfell rages above them, Sansa and Tyrion fight wights in the crypts below.





	Till the End

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, a scene was filmed for “The Long Night” in which Sansa and Tyrion killed two wights together down in the crypts, but the scene was cut from the episode. I wrote this fic because I just couldn’t resist the idea of seeing Sansa and Tyrion kill wights together.

Sansa’s heart beat in her throat.  She tightened her grip on the dagger in her hand, feeling the cold of the dragonglass against her palm even through the leather of her gloves.  She was shaking, but she steeled her nerves against her fear.

They weren’t fighters, she and Tyrion.  They had never been fighters.  At least, not the kind to take up arms and charge into battle.  Tyrion may have killed a man or two in combat before, but he wasn’t fit for this, and neither was she.  And yet, they had no choice but to brandish their weapons and head into the fray.

All around them, the cries of the dying filled the crypts, their screams mingling with the sounds of the dead tearing into their flesh.  Every muscle in Sansa’s body trembled, but she forged ahead nonetheless, Tyrion’s presence by her side more comfort than the dagger in her hand.  Had he not been with her— 

Sansa dared not think what she might have done if he had not been with her.  She was no coward, of course, but the blade in her hand might have tempted her to seal her own fate rather than die at the hands of the enemy. 

But he was there.  He was beside her, charging headlong into battle, the consequences be damned.

Sansa’s left hand was still warm from the touch of his fingers.  And his lips.  But she didn’t have time to think about what that meant.  Now was not the time for thinking, for what ifs, or for what might be.  Now was the time for action.  The time to save themselves and those around them from certain death.

Or at least to try.

They rounded a corner, Tyrion half a step behind her, and spotted two wights.  The creatures had their backs to them, their swords raised, ready to attack. 

Without a word spoken between them, without even a glance, Sansa and Tyrion lifted their weapons in silent accord.  She took one wight, he took the other, and together, they thrust their blades into the monster’s backs, their shambling corpses crumbling at Sansa and Tyrion’s feet.

Sansa didn’t have time to enjoy the victory.  An instant later, Tyrion yelled, “Sansa, behind you,” and she swung around to find another wight bearing down on her. 

She drove her blade upward without a moment’s hesitation, gutting the creature as it went for her throat.  She felt its blood gush over her hand, as its body slumped against her.

The force of its weight drove Sansa back against the wall, and she stood there, frozen in place, terror once again gripping her heart.  Suddenly, she was suffocating, the corpse pushing down on her chest, stealing the air from her lungs. 

In a heartbeat, she wasn’t in the crypts anymore.  She was Ramsay’s prisoner once again, his body pressing against hers, her own blood dripping from her wounds.  She felt his hands around her throat, his weight on her chest, and she was certain that this time she was going to die. 

Sansa closed her eyes, waiting for death to take her, the screams of the dying now little more than a whisper in her ears.

And then, the weight was gone. 

The pressure lifted, and she suddenly, miraculously, could breathe again.

Sansa opened her eyes.  She was back in the crypts.  The corpse was gone, and Tyrion was holding her hand.  He offered her a reassuring smile before he dragged her away from the wall and back into the fighting.

That was all Sansa needed.  She wasn’t alone anymore.  She wasn’t anyone’s prisoner.  She was the Lady of Winterfell.  She was a fighter.  And she and Tyrion were going to kill every last wight in the crypts of Winterfell if they had to, anything to save her people.

Tyrion let go of her hand, raising his dagger and charging toward the nearest creature, intent on killing it before it killed him.

Sansa regripped the blade in her hand, feeling as if it was suddenly an extension of herself.  Her eyes darted around her, taking in everything she could see.  To her left she saw a wight, writhing on the ground, battling its latest victim.  Without a thought for her own safety, Sansa raced forward, lifting her blade and driving it deep into the corpse’s skull. 

The creature slumped to the ground, and she quickly kicked it aside, her eyes flickering over the small child crying at her feet.  She searched the little boy’s face, his arms, his legs, looking for any sign that he’d become one of them, but the screams of terror ripping from his throat told her that he was definitely one of the living. 

She leaned down and scooped the boy up into her arms, suddenly afraid, not for her own life, but for his. 

Behind her, a shriek rent the air, and Sansa whipped around as fast as she could to find a woman barreling toward her, weeping uncontrollably, her arms outstretched toward the child.

Sansa could only imagine it was his mother.  She handed the boy to the woman and pushed them toward one of the alcoves in the wall.  “Go!” Sansa commanded before turning around and searching the darkness again.

She had lost sight of Tyrion, but she tried not to think about it.  She couldn’t lose him.  She wouldn’t lose him.  Not now, not after everything.  They were in this together.  They were going to get through this together.

A cold chill whispered against Sansa’s neck, and she swirled around to find another wight mere inches away.  It grabbed her by the arms, locking them at her sides, as its mouth moved toward her neck. 

Sansa gritted her teeth and channeled all her strength into her right arm, determined to free herself before the beast tore out her throat.

She wrenched her arm from its grasp and thrust her blade upward, stabbing it through the heart. 

This time, Sansa didn’t wait for the creature to fall against her.  She shoved it away and stepped right over it, in search of more wights to kill.

Screams of fear and agony filled the crypts as Sansa continued to fight, the walls around her reverberating with the unholy sound.  But it no longer frightened her.  It was just the sound of war, an ancient and primal rhythm that had beat for centuries and would continue to beat long after they were all gone.  It pulsed in Sansa’s veins, driving her onward, fueling her determination to claim victory for the living.

A loud clatter broke through the cacophony, piercing the endless rush of noise around her. 

Sansa’s heart stopped beating.  She knew that sound.  It was dragonglass.  Dragonglass hitting stone.  As far as she knew, only one other person in the crypts had a dragonglass dagger, and that was Tyrion.

Sansa turned toward the sound as if in slow motion, the world going quiet around her.  The only sound she could hear was her own pulse thrumming in her ears as she searched the near darkness for Tyrion.

It seemed as if it took forever to find him.  He was kneeling on the ground, struggling against a wight with his bare hands, struggling not to sink beneath the monster and join the army of the dead.

Every nerve in Sansa’s body screamed at her to help him, to rush forward and save him from certain death.  But for a moment, she couldn’t move.  Her limbs were trembling, and the strength seemed to drain out of her with every breath.  She was terrified.  Terrified of Tyrion dying.  Terrified of losing him.  And it left her completely paralyzed.

Tyrion screamed, the sound like a lion’s roar.  It pierced Sansa’s heart, finally spurring her into action. 

She ran towards Tyrion, her feet barely touching the ground as she moved.  In the span of a moment, she closed the distance between them, throwing herself at the wight and thrusting her dagger with all her might.

The decaying corpse crumbled to the ground, nearly knocking Tyrion over, but Sansa grabbed his arm, keeping him upright.

His eyes were wide with terror as he looked up at her, but they quickly softened, and a nervous laugh escaped his throat.  “I thought I was dead.”

“I thought you were too.”

He slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it.  “Never, my lady.  Never.  I will see this through till the end.”

Sansa knew he was talking about the fight, about the war, but for a moment, she wished he was talking about something else. 

Tears seeped from the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t even try to fight them.  She just tightened her grip on Tyrion’s hand and helped him to his feet.  Once he was steady, he leaned down and retrieved his dagger, holding it at the ready, prepared for another attack.

Sansa’s lungs ached as the air escaped her throat in short, ragged bursts.  She didn’t know how much longer she could go on.  The fighting seemed endless, the crypts around them stocked with centuries of dead Starks ready to rise up against them and end their lives.

Tyrion seemed to sense her thoughts.  Instead of leading her back into the chaos, he pulled her along the wall behind him, dragging her toward one of the alcoves nestled at the end of the cavernous space.  He led the way, making sure that no one, no thing, touched her, until they were safely huddled beside the rest of the refugees.

Tyrion’s hand slipped from hers as he crouched behind a stone direwolf, his eyes darting around them, looking for danger.  From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Lord Varys and a group of frightened women and children cowering in the dark.  Their fear was suddenly her fear, and she began to shake again.

Without a word, Tyrion’s hand moved to her thigh, but Sansa barely felt it.  She glanced over her shoulder, desperately searching for wights, as her fear finally overpowered her. 

Tyrion increased the pressure on her leg, and Sansa forced her eyes back to him.  He wasn’t looking at her, he was scanning the darkness with keen eyes, and yet he knew that she needed him.  Knew that she needed his comfort and support.

Sansa’s gaze followed Tyrion’s across the crypts, and she saw death marching steadily towards them.  But Tyrion whispered to her in the darkness, “It’s all right.  I’ll protect you.  I would die for you.”

Sansa tore her eyes from the horde of wights headed in their direction and stared at Tyrion, his words causing tears to stream down her cheeks.  He meant it.  He meant every word.  He was willing to die for her.  He would sacrifice his own life for her without any regret and without anything in return.

Sansa placed her hand over his and squeezed it tightly.  “No,” she said, through labored breaths.  “No, you’re not going to die for me.  I’m not going to let you.”

And then, Sansa pushed herself up from the ground and headed toward the oncoming swarm, determined to kill as many of them as she could before they reached the women and children.  Before they reached Tyrion.

She raised her dagger, brandishing it high as she prepared to fight.  Another few steps and they would reach her.  Another few moments and she would die. 

Sansa screamed and ran toward the invading horde, waiting to feel their fingers clawing at her flesh, but as she raced into their midst, they began to fall around her, dropping to the ground in heaps of bone and decaying flesh. 

Sansa felt something behind her.  When she swung around, she saw Tyrion by her side, his own weapon held high, poised to strike.  He had followed her.  He had followed her into the madness.  He had intended to die with her. 

But now, it was over.  Suddenly over.  And they both stood there in shocked silence, the crypts falling quiet around them.  The screams of terror were gone.  The sounds of flesh being torn from living bodies faded into memory.  And everything was suddenly normal again.

Sansa lowered her blade, and Tyrion did the same.  They had made it.  Somehow, they had made it.  And she knew that nothing was ever going to be the same between them again.


End file.
